


the moon lives in the lining of your skin

by dolarhyding



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Solas, Fluff, Gen, M/M, ace solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:51:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolarhyding/pseuds/dolarhyding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His flight cancelled, Solas is stuck in Boston for the long weekend.  Luckily, he found himself his very own tour guide--a man he met just hours ago while stuck in Tampa International Airport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the moon lives in the lining of your skin

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt on [my tumblr](http://grimsolas.tumblr.com/post/110081471452/delayed-flights-because-of-a-storm-so-they-meet-up). 
> 
> Leave a comment and kudos if you like! Support is always encouraging.

The terminal was a shit show, a clusterfuck of crying children and agitated businessmen wearing too much cologne, of bodies pressed against fogged window panes and contorted in airport chair yoga. It was 2am and Metis’ flight to Boston had been delayed—again—because of flash floods and lightning. It was Tuesday, and he had a meeting at 9am. _Not that missing it is a terrible loss_ , he decided, and thumbed through his Facebook again. Twitter was dead and Tindr was even less eventful (he found himself swiping left more often than right, a good indicator that maybe he should just delete the app, but his narcissism kept it tucked away in one of his subfolders.)

He occupied a small corner near an outlet with his satchel in his lap and his jacket wadded up into a pillow, neon blue light ghosting over his face. It made his eyes ache, but the alternative was sleeping, or going to the cantina, neither of which sounded terribly interesting. Metis sighed and puffed air out of his mouth, biting his lower lip. _Maybe I can get some work done._ He played with the idea in his head. Reviewing code at 2am wasn’t appealing, either.

In the end, it was his stomach that decided for him. Metis’ last meal was some 9 hours ago and he refused to eat since. He couldn’t bring himself to pay $5 for half a sandwich at his terminal’s cantina, neither could his stomach handle fast food. _Too bad there isn’t a Subway._ He could manage Subway. Stomach protesting a little bit too loudly, he shouldered his bag and started to navigate the sea of sleeping, snoring commuters, vacationers, and business-folk to reach the main walkway.

There were three people in the shop, occupying individual seats at the bar and empty booths lining the walls. Some poor bloke was manning the register half-asleep, and next to him a man on a laptop was busy typing away with a ferocity that Metis could only describe as dedicated, if not overzealous. He could hear the click-clack of the man’s keyboard from the door. _Blogging type_ , he decided. He would know, he was part of their ilk (coder, really, for Google, but the long hours and amount of coffee consumed were similar.)

Metis sat next to him, a barstool apart for courtesy. He couldn’t help but notice it was a word document pulled up, half full with single-spaced text and footnotes decorating the bottom margin. _Academic type, then_. Same thing.

The employee perked up with considerable effort. ”Can I help you?” he slurred, and Metis commended him on his effort.

"Got anything to eat? Nothing big," he responded, thumbing through his wallet. He would have to break a fifty. Metis frowned.

The manager gestured to the lit menu overhead. ”The grill is off and the fryer too, but I can microwave soup if you want. Otherwise your choices are salad or a sandwich.”

Metis nodded. Salad, no. Cold cuts and limp bread would have to do. He ordered a turkey sub and paid apologetically with his big bill, leaving a good tip in the glass jar when the kid wasn’t looking. He ate in silence, sipping at syrupy fountain Coke, while the man (who, he finally noticed, was wearing rimless glasses and a bald head underneath his beanie) typed furiously away at his computer. _He’ll pop his keys off at this rate._

"Do you need something?" asked a clipped, quiet voice. Metis’ hands fidgeted—his own personal equivalent to a full body jerk, if he’d ever had one. He hadn’t seen the man’s lips move, and neither did his fingers slow down, but the voice definitely came from him.

Metis shook his head and tapped his fingers absently. ”I know a room full of developers quieter than you.” His words came out hard and blunt, and his hands twitched again. A soft laugh followed.

"Apologies," the man said, and finally his fingers came to halt and hovered over his trackpad politely. He turned to Metis. "My dissertation is due this week. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I could move, if you’d like." It was more of a question than an offer, Metis realized, and he clicked his teeth.

"No, you’re fine," he answered, and then asked, "You too, then?"

The man—Metis should really ask about his name—nodded and pulled his lips into a slim line. He has dimples. Deep and large, they framed his pretty mouth like parentheses, accentuated by the dip in his chin. Metis couldn’t place his age. Dissertation said late 20’s, but the crow’s feet and faded laugh lines told him mid-30’s. The bald head screamed, _I’m old_ , and the beanie retaliated with, _But I act young._

An enigma, then.

"I’m only connecting in Boston," he explained, "I’ll miss my flight to Montreal at this rate, even with the layover." Another quiet sound—a sigh, maybe?—and his hands consoled each other in his lap. _Long fingers,_ Metis noticed. _A callus on his left ring finger. Artist or writing type, too. Maybe both._

"I’m Solas, if there are to be introductions," he—Solas—said suddenly, and those long, spidery fingers were held out for Metis to take. His hands were much larger, broader, with a square palm and strong fingers that easily consumed Solas’ slimmer palm. His hands were cold from typing.

"Metis."

"A pleasure," Solas replied, and then, "You can let go now." Metis cocked his head and, _Oh_ , he realized, _he hadn’t let go of Solas’ hand yet_. It was becoming warm in his own, and his fingers had snaked their way to his wrist and settled there contentedly. Metis dropped his hand unceremoniously and mumbled an apology. What the fuck.

Solas laughed, and it was a musical, practiced sound reserved for public appearances, tilted like his accent but not overbearingly so. Metis swiveled in his bar stool, hands working busily at twisting and untwisting one of his drawstrings. _Falling in love with strangers again,_ he chided himself. _Absolutely wonderful. Your infatuation will be the end of you._

It was a habit of his, honestly. Metis, despite his rough edges, was a devoted romantic at heart, easily falling in love with smiles and glittering eyes, kind words and polite manners. He blamed his mother, naturally, for his gentle and loving upbringing alongside his four sisters. _Maybe if she’d taught me that love was difficult I wouldn’t be so broke up all the time_ , he mused. But really, it had been the opposite, and Metis was educated in loving people just as he was taught how to tie his shoes and do his multiplication.

_Damn this soft heart of mine. And damn those dimples, too._


End file.
